Regrets and Reprimands
by LadyLattice
Summary: They were opposites, and always had been. Yet like the poles of the magnets Leonardo was so keen to study, their opposites attracted through grief and rage and wordless years of separation, never faltering even when their love changed with their hearts. Il genio and il assassino - always together and ever apart. M/M. All characters are the rightful property of Ubisoft.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The parchment between his fingers seems to weigh more than the world itself, and yet it seemed so keen to crumble like a leaf left to decay. Ezio sighed, dragging a calloused palm over his face as his brows pinched together firmly, damming the hot sting of emotion in his throat and behind his eyes. He glanced to the words scrawled in a messy hand, and he had to concede a small smile when he accepted that the note was about as curt as he should have expected.

 _3 May 1519_

 _Ezio,_

 _He left us yesterday, the 2nd of May, in the late afternoon. It was sunny and he seemed content, smiling like he knew. He spoke of you often in his final days, always fondly and always with love._

 _He bequeathed something to you in his will, and I hope that we can meet soon so that I may give it to you._

 _In grief,_

 _Salai_

Ezio folded the letter once more, creasing it with uncharacteristic care and tucking it into the book lying discarded upon the table. His fingers lingered on the battered old cover for a long moment after it had thumped softly shut, before sinking blindly into the chair. Staring at the dwindling embers of the fire, he nearly rose to collect the note and read it once more, again and again and again, but he forced himself to stay put.

There was nothing for him to do, after all - no vengeance to pursue or blade to sink into the throat of a traitor. There was only death, the ending of a life, as natural as the wilting of flowers when their time has concluded at last. It was inevitable, but somehow it seemed as if a man so consumed with life would manage to evade death's beckoning embrace. Ezio had dealt enough death in his lifetime to know when someone was truly, truly meant to live.

The leather of the chair creaked in quiet protest as Ezio laid his head back against the seat, dark hair streaked with grey spilling unbound and lazy around his shoulders. His voice was gritty and low when he spoke aloud one at all, coarse with emotion.

"Damn you, Leonardo."


	2. December, 1476

**December, 1476**

Ezio muttered a curse under his breath, pausing to shift the crate in his arms as he scowled bitterly at his mother and the lanky figure by her side. He could not hear their conversation, only the excited lilt of the man's voice and his mother's occasional appeasing encouragement whenever he recalled his station and he fell to silence. But with her soft persuasion, he would begin once more, his voice too loud and his gestures too large.

" _Grazie_ for your stimulating company, Messere da Vinci," Maria said at last, offering a small nod of acknowledgement as she severed the conversation beneath the archway to the palazzo. "If you are ever in need of a carthorse, my son is always available. He is good for little else, save for using that face of his to get out of trouble."

" _Madre_ ," Ezio scolded lightly, setting the crate of canvases upon a bench in the courtyard.

Maria ignored him with practiced ease, turning back to the wide-eyed artist to offer him payment and a casual smile. Ezio frowned at her back, and then proceeded to frown at the pull of discomfort that stretched the healing scar upon his lip. He had weathered enough of her abuse already for one afternoon, even if he had managed to earn nearly all of it in one way or another. Her previous snide remark about his particular brand of self expression, however, was entirely - mostly - uncalled for, and certainly not appreciated. Simply because she took delight in the company of bizarre young artists with golden hair and too much enthusiasm did not mean that he had to as well. Ezio far preferred the company of anyone with full breasts and open thighs.

"Ah, it has been a pleasure, _Madonna_ ," the artist said, clearly having been dismissed. "Ezio, _grazie_ for your help… with the box."

Ezio offered a shallow bow, truly little more than a nod of acknowledgement, and watched the awkward smile that pulled at the other man's lips with interest. For all his peculiarities, _Messere_ da Vinci was, at the very least, endearingly attractive. Those pale eyes and freckled cheeks framed with golden hair, all so very un-Italian, were as flashy as his enthusiasm and as tender as his manner. It was no wonder that Maria Auditore - and certainly a number of others - found themselves drawn to the painter. Though Ezio supposed that his wit and artistic skill had its merits as well.

"He is a strange man," Ezio commented smugly to his mother after the artist had shuffled away.

"Perhaps," Maria agreed with a half-hearted shrug. "But I am fond of him, nonetheless. And I expect you, _mio figlio_ , to appease me in treating him with kindness."

Ezio pouted, the scar at his lip pulling painfully once more at the sensitive flesh. The artist may have become his mother's new favorite, but she always had been a gracious patron of the arts, and that was her own business. Truthfully, Ezio had no part nor interest in it, though his uncanny ability to form opinions on the matter was quick to contradict such accusations. He was unlikely to find himself in the artist's company excessively in the future, so he did not dwell on the thought.

As if reading his thoughts, his mother spoke once more with the quiet authority that she could wield like a blade. "I intend to commission from him a portrait of Claudia soon, and I expect you to act as her chaperone."

" _Madre, per favore,_ do not make me."

"Come now, Ezio, it will not be so dull. Perhaps not as interesting as your whores, but far from boring," she explained with a dismissive wave, though her dark gaze held a silent warning full of promise. "Leonardo is more than a painter. He often entertains himself with the creation of all manners of objects, some of which you may find to be of interest. What is your manner of opposition to him, anyway?"

Brows scrunching together, Ezio shrugged, unable to find a concise answer to her question. The artist was bizarre, at the very least, but he held no true dislike of him. His stubbornness, however, insisted that he discover some flaw or be forced to be made a fool of by his mother.

"He speaks above his station," he managed at last, the words rushed and flustered.

"He speaks of what he loves, which is more than you can say," Maria quickly countered.

"Well, is he even popular? I have not seen his works," Ezio tried again.

His mother scoffed, looking thoroughly offended in defense of her artist's apparently fragile honor. "He certainly is. He studied under _Maestro_ del Verrocchio, and I believe he will exceed the limitations of his master's skill."

Ezio smirked triumphantly as if he had managed some silent victory in the face of his mother's infallible tenacity. It was satisfying, like the evening prior when she had delegated his scolding to his father, only for his father to smother his amusement behind the weak facade of a stern talking to. Small victories over the Auditore women were often the only ones to be celebrated, and so his voice lilted with confidence as he spoke.

"You may have a discerning eye, mother, but he is no _maestro_ yet. His master's name has given him one as well."

"Leonardo da Vinci came from nothing and built a name with his skill and wit," Maria spat instantaneously in retaliation. "Which is far more than most boys who have the luxury of connections and family, yet do nothing with it, _mio figlio_. Remember that. Now go speak to your father, he has errands for you."

The reproach was clearly for his ears and was offered with little sympathy, but he hid his flinch behind a light-hearted shrug and the smile that earned him his reputation. Disinclined to hear any further reprimand, Ezio bowed lightly with a soft reply of " _sì_ , _madre_ " before seeking out his father's study.

Giovanni was quick to send him off with letters to be collected and delivered, a determined air and peculiar energy tinting his father's voice with a timid hope. It put a spring in Ezio's step that he did not truly understand, but this errand - as mundane as it would be on any other day - felt inexplicably important, as if he was trusted, and it leant lightness to his feet.

He was soon to take to the rooftops, though it was an unnecessary effort, but the tempting splendor of a Firenze sunset was just beginning to kiss the horizon. The sun was large and low, its brilliant rays slanting sideways and warming his tanned skin to copper. Terracotta tiles sprawled towards the edges of the earth and blended into the sky, vibrant orange in the failing light, and Ezio could not help but marvel at the city he called his home. He loved this city - from the imposing stature of _il Duomo_ , to the stony sentinel of _il Palazzo Vecchio_ as it stood guard over its mistress _la Piazza della Signoria_ , to the alleys that he knew like the lines in his palms _._ He was content here in the jewel of Tuscany, the jewel of _Italia_.

Ezio smiled at the sun, sighing and opening his arms to the sky. It was balmy for December, but the air was bright and clear like crystal. His belly full of the warmth of nostalgia, he took to the rooflines and balconies, leaping overhead the masses below. Between the pleasantness of the evening and his amusing encounter prior in the day, nothing could dampen his spirits.


End file.
